The Fog of War
by Kittystitch
Summary: In the heat of the moment, sometimes a commander has to make hard decisions.
1. Chapter 1

**THE FOG OF WAR**

**Chapter 1**

Garrison dropped down behind the shelter of a fallen tree, in a desperate hope that it would give him a few seconds to catch his breath and ease the burning in his lungs. In the distance he thought he could see the clearing where the plane was suppose to be waiting, and the movement through the woods ahead of him should be the rest of his men, and the young woman who was the target of this mission, running toward their getaway.

Another mortar exploded in the woods to his right. He instinctively covered his head as a shower of splinters and sparks rained down on him, along with the real rain that had drenched them for an hour. Damn, the Germans were perfecting their down-range targeting with that huge gun. It was now or never. Leaping to his feet, slipping on the wet leaves, he made a dash for the clearing, hoping he'd reach the plane before the next mortar round did.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the woods, quickly surveying the clearing for any possible dangers. A flash of lightning and accompanying deafening thunder clap made him duck again, as if more flame and shrapnel would come pelting down. But the lightning gave him a brief view of the small plane just 200 yards ahead, and the rest of the crew gathered near the door. Now if they could just get off the ground...

He reached the airplane as Casino was helping their young ward clamber up into the open hatch. Goniff and Actor were already inside, reaching down for her hands.

"Where's Chief?" he gasped, trying to slow his breathing.

Casino glanced around quickly, as if just noticing the Indian's absence. "He was right behind me. I know he was."

Garrison slumped against the side of the plane and quickly scanned the distance he'd just run, searching through the sheets of heavy rain for any sign of his missing crew member. He flinched at another flash of lightning - or was it another mortar round?

"Get in the plane, Casino." Garrison motioned for the pilot to start the engines.

"I'll go find him. He was right on my tail a minute ago."

Casino reached for his rifle and started back the way they'd come, but Garrison caught his arm. "No. Get in."

"But he was right there..."

"Get in the damn plane!"

"Wait! We can't just leave him..."

"We have to get this thing off the ground now, before that big gun finds it. We're sitting ducks."

"No, wait, Warden, I know he's probably right back there in the woods. Maybe he's hurt or..." Casino tried to pull loose from his commander's grip, but Garrison hung on, desperate to keep the hot head from dashing off back into the storm. He was not ready for Casino's sudden swing and the fist that caught him solidly on the side of the head. His own temper flared - he grabbed Casino's arm again, swung him around, and with all his strength, returned the blow. Casino slammed against the side of the plane and slumped, stunned, to the ground.

Garrison quickly took hold of Casino by the jacket collar and belt, hauled him to the hatch, and heaved him in through the opening. "Actor, Goniff, pull him up..."

"Warden, what's happenin'?" Goniff asked as he pulled his semiconscious friend into the plane.

"We're getting out of here." He took hold of one of the hand straps at the edge of the door, looping it around his wrist, preparing to pull himself on board.

"But Chiefy..." Goniff started to protest.

Another mortar round exploded, metal against metal as shrapnel pelted the side of the plane, and Garrison felt his left leg ripped out from under him. He clung with all his remaining strength to the wrist strap as the plane began to taxi, and struggled to get to his feet before he could be dragged. Strong hands clutched him by the arm and lifted him toward the door. He scrambled aboard and collapsed on his stomach, feeling the liftoff push him against the deck. He lay there for a moment, dripping wet and gasping for air, waiting for his heart to slow, until he could push himself over on his back. Again, a strong grip on his arm helped him up and into a jump seat. Finally looking around, he saw Goniff huddled across from him, pulling a blanket around the shoulders of their quarry, trying to ease her hysterical sobbing. Casino was still dazed and slumped in the jump seat on her other side.

"Warden, your leg..." Actor was next to him, already tearing his bloody pant leg away from the gash above his left knee. He hadn't felt it, didn't feel it now, but he knew he would.

As Actor snapped open the first aid kit and pulled out bandages and sulfur powder, Garrison watched Casino across the aisle. "How is he?"

"He'll live." Actor gently dabbed blood away from the open cut and began wrapping gauze tightly. The plane shuttered violently as it hit an air pocket in the storm. "But Chief is still..."

"I know. Not now," Garrison said.

"Warden, if Chiefy's 'urt..." Goniff this time.

"I said not now."

Casino stirred, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings and the roar of the airplane engines, and his eyes found Garrison's. "You bastard! You dirty, rotten bastard!" He leapt from his seat and lunged at Garrison, but Actor intervened.

"Take it easy, Casino..."

Casino pushed against the tall Italian, trying to get at the target of his rage. "You left him there! You just left him there. He could be hurt. He could be bleeding out there in the woods, and you just left him!"

"I had no choice..."

"You had a choice! We coulda waited! You coulda let me go back for him. But he's expendable, right?! You can get yourself another wheel man, another lookout, another killer. What's one lousy half-breed kid to you anyway? They're a dime a dozen."

"Casino..."

"You left him..."

The adrenaline drained from Casino's anger as he collapsed back into his seat, realizing the futility of the situation. His dark eyes still glared across the aisle at Garrison. "Bastard..."


	2. Chapter 2

**THE FOG OF WAR**

Chapter 2

Garrison leaned back in the rickety chair and rubbed his burning eyes with the heals of his hands. A glance at his watch told him he'd been at this all day, and his stomach told him he'd forgotten lunch again. But the piles of folders and papers on his desk had not gotten any smaller.

Actually he'd been at this all week. After they'd released him from the hospital, he'd checked himself into temporary officers' quarters in London and commandeered an empty desk at Intelligence Headquarters. He hadn't seen his men since the unusually short debriefing session with Major Richards immediately after their return from France. He hadn't been back out to the mansion. His team needed to deal with their feelings alone, among themselves. There was nothing he could do for them now.

He had put together a comprehensive and rigorous training schedule, trying to focus on each man's strengths and weaknesses, and sent it out to Sergeant Major Rawlins for implementation. He wanted them to be exhausted at the end of each day. He knew it wouldn't really work, but so far there had been only two drunken brawls, and a fist fight between Casino and one of the grounds staff.

He'd also started back into his own physical training, beginning with upper body strength while the gash in his leg healed. That morning he'd gone back out onto the track, stretching carefully and then starting out at a slow jog, testing the stitches that still held his wound closed. As his muscles warmed and he began to break a sweat, he picked up his pace, and watched a bright spring sun rise over the grey military complex to the east. He missed the open fields around the mansion, the miles of heath and pasture, green and pungent with wet soil and growing things, and the companion that usually ran at his side... The knot forming in his throat caught him off guard, and he pulled in a long breath of smog-choked air to clear it. Chief had begun joining him on his morning runs not long after they'd settled into the mansion, after he'd learned how to escape from their supposedly secure quarters. The young Indian ran with the feral grace of a large cat, and his seemingly endless stamina challenged his own, forcing him to work harder. He'd welcomed the chance to get to know the least vocal of his team. Sometimes you didn't need words to discover how someone thought, learned, reacted, and dealt with unfamiliar situations. Many mornings became an impromptu competition, with a final sprint to the mansion steps. He didn't often win, and he'd given more than one thought to giving up the cigarettes.

All week he'd thrown himself into his own work - what lay before him now in a cluttered mess - mounds of folders full of the latest on Axis troop strength and movements, weapons assessments, supply routes; intelligence reports from France and Belgium and Italy that required translation and analysis, from the Resistance, from the Maquis, with names of people he knew personally or by reputation, good men fighting impossible odds. The report he had been looking for, hoping against hope that it would be the next folder he opened, was the one saying they'd found Chief. Then he'd have to decide if he wanted to read whatever it reported...

And there was the separate pile, at the far left corner of the desk, as far out of his reach as he could move it - dossiers of other young men, some convicts with useful skills, some enlisted men from both armies, eager for excitement and adventure. Major Richards had told him to pick someone - he hadn't actually used the word "replacement" - because there was still important work to be done. But he wasn't ready.

The sharp knock at his door startled him, and he stood and snapped to attention as Major Richards strode into his small office.

"As you were, Lieutenant."

Garrison relaxed to an at-ease pose. "You're still here, sir?"

"As are you, I see. How's the leg?"

"It's fine, sir."

The Major laid a slim manilla folder in the middle of the mess on Garrison's desk. "If you're ready, I thought you'd want to take this one."

Garrison picked it up and flipped it open, quickly scanning through the top few sheets of paper. Beyond his control, his heart was in his throat. A mission to locate and retrieve additional documents that had not made it out with the young woman they'd just rescued. He looked up at his superior. "We're ready, Major."


	3. Chapter 3

THE FOG OF WAR

Chapter 3

Vague, swirling black shapes clutching at him, catching and pulling on his clothing, rain pelting his face, and the constant, insistent drumming...bright lights and small, painful explosions...pools of sticky, wet blood, the stench of gunpowder...the need to run, fighting for air, struggling for the surface, to escape the swirling black shapes...and he bolted upright, gasping desperately, and immediately choked as air burned his throat. He rolled to his side, trying to pull oxygen into his lungs, while the uncontrollable coughing kicked it right back out. The world tilted and heaved, and he tried to throw up...

A warm pressure on his shoulder gently pushed him back into a pile of puffy clouds. Murmuring sounds, or music...voices? Cool liquid dripped onto his lips and stung, but he licked at it greedily, and slowly drifted off into the soft clouds...

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

The drumming returned, and got louder and louder, until he realized it wasn't drumming at all, but a pounding pain behind his eyes that threatened to take the top of his head off.

He wasn't alone, there was another presence. His fingers felt for the spring trigger, but it wasn't there. Panic rose in his chest.

"Jeanette, je pense qu'il est éveillé."

A woman's voice. French? An attempt to open his eyes rewarded him with blinding light that only fueled the pounding, and he struggled to make sense of the blurry images - a black-clad angel, and one in blue.

The blue one sat on the edge of the bed. "Vous avez retourné à la vie. Comment allez-vous sentir?"

Turning his head brought on a wave of nausea. He fought it back and took in his surroundings, his fingers flexing and itching for what he knew should be in his hand. A bright, white-washed room with two other beds; two windows on one wall, open to sunlight and fresh spring air, and an open door directly opposite; a large gold crucifix hanging on the wall in front of him. The blue angel smiled, the black one standing behind her looked concerned. Not angels, nuns.

She sighed and tried again. "Was ist dein Name?"

German. He thought she'd asked his name. What had he done with his blade?

Blue Angel sighed again, and glanced back at her black-clad companion, obviously frustrated. Again she turned to him with a smile. "Veuillez essayer de reste. Je vais apporter de la soupe bientôt." She straightened the blanket around his shoulders and rose to leave.

"Where...?" It was all his parched throat would let him get out.

"Ah, English!" Her bright smile radiated, and she sat back down beside him. "You are at the Convent of St. Joan. Do you remember what happened to you?" Her English was perfect, her accent negligible.

"No….where are my things?"

Her smile faded. "Not English. American."

He tried to rise and push past her. "Look, I need to get outta here..." The room tilted again, and the pounding behind his eyes exploded into a blinding fire. He fell back against the pillows.

"No you don't, you need to rest. That's a nasty wound on your head."

He reached to his forehead and discovered the thick layer of bandages wrapped there, and the tenderness at his hairline above his right eye. "How'd I get here?"

"Claude found you unconscious at the edge of his pasture and brought you here."

He searched through his memory, but that one was not there. "How long...?"

"You have been unconscious for two days. We were beginning to worry."

None of this was making any sense...

"My name is Jeanette DuPres. I'm a novice here. I'm the one with a little nurses' training, so I get to play doctor." She paused, as if awaiting a response. "And you are...?"

He searched again. That memory was gone too. "I dunno…"

"And you don't recall what happened to you?"

"No."

She tried to smile reassuringly. "Well, that was a bad blow to the head you received. I'm sure your memory will return soon. Meanwhile, you're safe here."

He didn't feel safe. He felt vulnerable, exposed, alone. And he didn't know why. But he knew he wouldn't be able stand up, much less go anywhere, even if he did know where he was suppose to be. He closed his eyes and let the wave of aching exhaustion overtake him...


	4. Chapter 4

THE FOG OF WAR

Chapter 4

On the long drive out to the estate, Garrison began to doubt his decision. Had he done the right thing to leave his team to their own devices, without his input and supervision? He knew all three of them were angry. Casino, especially, had not spoken another word to him after his attack on the plane. For Casino, that was not a good sign.

Sergeant Major Rawlins had sent him daily reports of their training sessions, and they certainly weren't slacking off. If anything, they were burying themselves in the work. Goniff had improved his accuracy on the rifle range by 60%. Both he and Actor had increased their speed on the obstacle course, even with the extra obstacles he'd ordered. Casino had spent several days working with, and learning from, British and American Army explosives experts, all of whom wrote glowing reports of his knowledge and willingness to share. And yet as the car pulled through the big iron gates, he still couldn't get the knot out of his stomach.

He had Rawlins gather them all in the map room rather than meeting them in the large suite that was their quarters. He wanted to be on neutral territory, although he hated thinking of his team in terms of military strategy. That was not the relationship he'd had with them.

Now he paused outside the door and could hear them talking among themselves, although he couldn't make out what was being said. He took a deep breath and swung the door open.

Goniff was immediately on his feet. "Warden! How're ya doin'? How's the leg? Any news on Chiefy? Tell us they've found 'im, right? He's just been campin' out there all this time..."

Garrison threw his brief case onto the table and unlocked the handcuff securing it to his wrist. "I'm sorry, no. There's no news yet."

"But the Resistance is aware of his situation, right?" Actor asked quietly.

"They are. But the Germans are moving an entire division into that sector. The cell had to go underground. We're only getting spotty information."

"Beautiful! That's just great!" Casino swung his legs off the table and sat up. "Now if he is still alive, the Krauts will just pick him right up and execute him."

"Nah, Chiefy's smarter than that," Goniff was quick to reassure. "Remember, we talked about that. He's hidin' out in some cozy li'l cave somewhere, eatin' 'is leaves an' skinnin' some bunnies..."

"Knock it off, you dumb limey," Casino spat. "This is a war, remember? Not some fuckin' fairytale."

"Both of you knock it off!" Garrison shouted louder than he'd intended. He snapped open the briefcase and tossed the slender file into the middle of the table. "We have work to do."

"Another mission? But we're still one man short." The sarcasm in Casino's tone dared him to say he'd chosen a replacement for Chief. "Or one and a half men short," he quipped, gesturing at the bandage that bulged slightly beneath Garrison's pants leg.

"My leg is fine, Casino. Thank you for your concern. The four of us should be able to handle this with no problem."

Actor had picked up the folder and begun flipping through the pages, taking thoughtful puffs on his pipe. "We're going back, aren't we?"

"We are."

"To find Chief, ya mean?" Goniff couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice.

"Mademoiselle LeBeau wasn't able to bring out to all the documents we needed. Our orders are to find them and photograph them."

Casino snorted. "Ha! So we're not really going back for Chief. I didn't think so. Certainly not when there are 'pieces of paper' to photograph."

"That's enough!" Garrison slammed his hand on the table and turned on Casino with more vehemence than he thought he had left. "The world is at war. Don't you get that? Men die in war. You all knew the risks when you signed up. No one lied to you. No one lied to Chief. I had a decision to make, and I made it, and now I'm trying to live with it." He took a breath and tried to regain his composure. "Those 'pieces of paper' have the power to save lives, to end this madness sooner instead of later. We will do whatever it takes to get them. Is that understood?"

His men just stared at him, not sure how to react.

"Understood?!"

"Sure, Warden," Goniff agreed, "But if Chief's still alive..."

Garrison took another slow breath, trying again to loosen the knot, struggling to keep his voice in control. "I've lost men under my command before. Young men. Good men, with futures, with families, wives and children. It's hard. I accept that. But I have _never_ left a man behind before." He felt everyone's eyes on him, knowing that it was going to take more than words to earn back their trust. "The mission is to retrieve the documents. But when have we ever passed up an opportunity for mission creep?"


	5. Chapter 5

THE FOG OF WAR

Chapter 5

He had to run faster, he had to catch up. The faceless black shapes were getting closer - he couldn't let them find him. One leapt in front of him, and the blade slipped effortlessly through his fingers in an underhanded swing that resulted in a solid, final thud...and there was blood, so much blood, turning the blackness into dark, wet red. He was covered in it, it dripped from his hands, he could taste it in his mouth. He needed to breathe, to escape, to pull himself up into the warmth and light...

He knew where he was when he opened his eyes this time. The light in the room had shifted, but the birds singing through the open window told him it was morning, and the air smelled of a recent rain.

He was alone, and the door was closed now, but he could hear movement somewhere else in the building, soft domestic sounds, women's voices, and laughter.

Experimentally he raised himself on his elbows. The pounding in his head had subsided to a dull throb, and the room stayed solidly in one position. It was now or never. There was somewhere else he needed to be.

A little shaky on his feet, he held onto the small chest next to the bed as he opened each drawer. The damp morning breeze blowing in through the window sent a chill rippling across his bare skin. He found a stack of clothes in the top drawer, presumably his. He pulled on the simple cotton briefs and singlet quickly, and inspected the rest. A simple watch with a black leather band - no inscription. Plain grey woolen pants with a tear in the knee, neatly mended with tiny, tight stitches. There was nothing in the pockets. And a plain white cotton shirt, freshly laundered and smelling of bleach. A pale stain on the right collar was all that remained of the blood that had dripped from the gash on his forehead.

Lying under the clothing was his leather arm band with its hair-trigger spring - he strapped it in place and anxiously searched the drawer for the blade. He yanked open the other two drawers, but found nothing. Finding his socks and boots in the far corner, he finished dressing and searched every other shelf and drawer in the room, with no success. _Shit_.

Soft footsteps in the hall alerted him to someone's approach, but before he could slip behind the door, it swung open.

The Blue Angel stopped suddenly, startled, almost dropping the tray she carried. She recovered quickly, and stepped across the room to place the tray on the chest next to his bed. "You must be feeling better. I brought you some breakfast."

The smell of the steaming oatmeal mixed with honey and raisins made his mouth water. He didn't actually know when he'd last eaten.

"Come sit down," she urged. "I'll check your wound while you eat."

Because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he obeyed, and sat beside her on the bed. She handed him the large bowl and a spoon. "With all the rationing, we don't have much, but this should hold you for a while. The milk is from our own goats."

He dug into it greedily, and she took the opportunity to unwrap the gauze from around his head. He flinched when her fingers found the gash.

"I'm sorry. It must be very tender. But it looks like it's healing well. I should be able to remove the stitches in a couple of days. How is your headache?"

"It's there," he managed between the final spoons full of oatmeal.

She took the empty bowl from him and reached for the clean cloth and bowl of warm, soapy water she'd brought in on the tray. "This may sting a bit, too," she warned.

He gritted his teeth and sat as still as possible as she cleaned the wound and reapplied a smaller bandage. "Have you remembered anything yet?"

"No. Nothin'." Just that he owned a knife, he was lethal with it, and he was running from something. Or to something. And there was a lot of blood involved. But he kept that to himself. He didn't want to scare her. She was kind and gentle, and smelled of roses and warm earth. Her eyes were an intense green, and the hair that escaped from under her sky blue wimple was pale blond. She couldn't be more than 20, he guessed.

As if she felt pinned by his stare, she stood abruptly and gathered the tray of dishes. "If you're feeling up to it, I think some fresh air would be good for you. You could join me in the garden after Terce."

"Okay..."

"I'm sorry. Mid-morning prayers. At 9:00. I'll come by to get you."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

He couldn't stay cooped up in that tiny room any longer. After Jeanette left with her tray of dishes, he left, too. He felt like he was sneaking out, escaping from something, but he didn't know what. The doors were open to the fresh spring air, and no one was standing guard with an automatic weapon. No one was around at all. Probably all at their prayers, he imagined.

The convent was a small gathering of stone buildings surrounding a main chapel and circled by a field stone wall. He walked the perimeter, staying close to the wall, absorbing every detail, until the sound of a rushing stream drew his attention down a gentle embankment. The water was deep and clear, and he stretched out on the rocky shoreline, drinking so much from cupped hands that he thought he might be sick again. But the cold water felt good on his face and the back of his neck. He laid his head on his crossed arms and closed his eyes, just for a minute...but he couldn't afford to doze off, he needed to stay alert. He jumped to his feet and headed back up the hill.

What appeared to be the nuns' quarters were in a small building on the west side of the compound. The largest building was to the east, and contained a small kitchen, a spartan dining area, some storage, and the one-room "hospital" where he'd been kept. The garden Jeanette had mentioned was sprawled next to it, a large, newly weeded and well tended plot of early spring vegetables and the beginnings of an abundant summer harvest. The south side was sparsely wooded, with a small barn and paddock nestled up against the trees. The clucking of chickens attracted him to it. There were at least a dozen pecking around in the paddock, and two goats working on the weeds that grew through the fence. The barn door was open, and inside, amid the warm scent of hay and manure, was a beat up old cart, and a small donkey standing sleepily beside it.

"Hey there, girl," he cooed, reaching up to touch her soft nose. "Ain't anybody brought you breakfast yet?" He picked up a handful of the hay and offered it to her. She nibbled it absently, not really hungry, but willing to accept a gift from a stranger. He pulled an old curry brush off a hook on the wall and idly brushed the shaggy mane and coat, feeling strangely comforted by the simple repetitive action. The little donkey nickered her approval and nuzzled at his shirt sleeve. She was probably used to receiving a treat from whoever usually did this.

He'd done all this before, he knew it. It felt as natural as the leather strapped to his right forearm. It felt as real as the urgency and the fear and the blood in his dreams. How could these things go together? There was someplace he needed to be, someone who was counting on him to do something. He had the gut-wrenching feeling that it had more to do with the fear and the blood than the donkey.

He heard her approaching from across the barn yard. She was carrying a small bucket bouncing against her leg, and she'd changed from her long blue habit into men's work pants and an old plaid shirt. Her blond hair was cut short, and ruffled in the breeze. For the second time today, she was startled to find him in front of her as she entered the barn.

"Sorry," he apologized. "That room was getting a little close."

"No, I'm glad you're feeling better. That's Marie Antoinette, by the way."

"Big name for such a little critter."

"She thinks she's the Queen."

"I'll bet." He gave her flank one last good swipe of the brush before he hung it back on its hook.

Jeanette picked up a handful of gardening tools from the work bench and headed back out the door. "I'm going to pick some peas and do some weeding if you'd like to join me."

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

In companionable silence, they weeded a whole row of small tomato plants, but not much else in the immaculate garden needed attention. They'd picked almost a pound of early peas, and now sat in the grass to shell them, collecting them in her bucket.

"You still have no memory of what happened to you?" she eventually asked. He knew by the way she'd watched him all morning that she'd been trying to figure out how to get him to talk.

"Nope. None. But I don't think it was good."

"And your name?"

"Nope."

"We have to call you something. Just say the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe it will be the real thing."

He wasn't about to do that.

"Oh, come on."

He just stared at her.

"Okay, I'll call you...Boris!"

"Boris?"

"Well, if you can't give me something better..."

He needed to change the subject. "Are you from around here?" he asked, popping several peas into his mouth.

She nodded, her head down, her eyes on her shelling. "My family used to own the winery on the hill over there. It's the German Commandant's headquarters now."

"Where'd you learn to speak such good English?"

"Wellesley class of '39. Before that, Notre Dame Academy."

He just stared at her — he wasn't sure that answered his question.

"I went to school in the states," she simplified.

"But you came back?"

"My mother died. And Father was very sick. And then the Germans came..."

"I'm sorry..."

"No, it's alright. I'm just glad they didn't live long enough to see what the Germans have done to our home. The nuns took me in as a novitiate. They've been kind to me..."

"You really want to be a nun? What about the nurse's training?"

"I belong here. This land used to belong to my family. This is my home."

"And after the Nazis are done with it?"

But now it was her turn to change the subject. "Stop, you're eating all the peas. We won't have any left for dinner. Besides, I have to go clean up for Sext."

She jumped to her feet and laughed at his sharp, surprised glance. "Sext!" she repeated, spitting out the T. "Midday prayers."

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

After returning the tools to the barn, they headed back toward the common building. The light, warm breeze still played in her uncombed hair, and the bucket of freshly shelled peas swung casually at her side. He had to admit that hiding the nicely rounded hips and narrow waist under a nun's habit would be a waste. It could be nice getting to know that green-eyed smile better.

She slowed abruptly, and he almost ran into her. "That's Mother Catherine," she whispered, indicating the imposing woman clad in a long black habit standing in the doorway. "I think I'm in trouble…."

"Jeanette, viens ici, mon enfant. Où étiez-vous?"

"We were picking peas, Mother Catherine. For dinner." She spoke in English, for his sake, and shot him a sideways glance.

"And this is your young patient, I see." The Abbess's English was heavily accented.

"Yes, ma'am. Boris," she introduced.

He didn't miss the quirk in her smile and the gleam in her eye.

"How are you feeling, young man? Better, I hope?"

He cleared his throat uncertainly, picking up on the intimidation coming off of Jeanette in waves. "Yeah…yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"So you have finally remembered your name?"

"No," Jeanette cut in. "But we have to call him something."

The Abbess nodded curtly and turned her formidable gaze back to Jeannette. "Vous savez qu'il ne peut pas rester. Les Allemands ne peut pas le trouver ici."

"Oui, je sais."

"Now go change. You are welcome to join us in prayer…Boris."

"Yes, ma'am."

After the Abbess was out of earshot, heading toward the chapel, he asked, "What was that all about?"

Jeanette sighed, and started through the kitchen door with their harvest. "You're American. She's afraid the Germans will find you here."

"Then I'll leave."

"Don't be silly. Where would you go? No, you still need to rest, and you still have stitches in your head. I'll handle Mother Catherine."

He had no doubt that she could.


	6. Chapter 6

THE FOG OF WAR

Chapter 6

Luck seemed to be on their side for once. Using last minute information received from the local Resistance cell, he'd developed a plan similar to ones they'd used numerous times in the past, with only slight variations. The cell leader promised to have all of the necessary supplies ready for them. Their access to the mansion, and the documents it contained, was almost assured. The local Commandant was throwing an elaborate reception for all the brass who'd recently moved into the area with the troop build-up. Properly attired, they could get lost in the crowd. They could pull this one off in their sleep. Yet he knew better than anyone how a sure thing could quickly go to hell.

Parachutes always posed more of a risk, especially in an area as heavily occupied as this, but coming in by sub and taking an overland route was too time-consuming. He'd made the decision to take the risk. With the weather cooperating, the flight across the channel was smooth. He stretched his legs out in front of him and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tightness in his shoulders. He couldn't get his mind to focus. The web of lines on the map he was studying refused to coalesce into anything meaningful. Goniff and Casino's intermittent bickering was getting on his nerves, but every time he looked up from his work, he found Casino staring at him. He saw the antagonism building behind the safe-cracker's eyes, and he wondered what would finally set it off. And when.

Their luck held, rewarding them with a near-perfect jump directly into the drop zone, and he saw no signs of German patrols as he came down. By the time he'd gathered his chute, he had eyes on everyone, and Actor was retrieving the supply crate. The large clearing had once been a wheat field, and was surrounded on all sides by encroaching forrest. It looked a lot different than it had two weeks ago, in the pounding rain and relentless mortar fire.

Working quickly and efficiently, they hustled their chutes into the woods and buried them beneath a thick layer of leaf mold and rocks. Casino pried off the lid of the supply crate and unloaded their weapons, handing one to both Actor and Goniff. He shoved a cartridge into his own automatic rifle with a determined snap.

Garrison brushed the leaves and dirt off his hands as he approached his team, but came up short when Casino spun and pointed the business end of the weapon at his chest, a challenge in his glare. He slowly raised his arms away from his sides, away from his side arm, not wanting to escalate the situation. "If you want a fight, Casino, put down the rife and we can do this right here and now."

Actor laid a cautionary hand on Casino's arm. He smiled and lowered the rifle. "No fight, Warden. Just a friendly warning. I won't be turnin' my back on you."

"Hey, look at this!" Goniff shouted, breaking the tension in the air. He was kneeling in the leaves, picking up a shiny object.

Casino snatched it from the pick pocket and snapped the blade open. "I don't think this is regulation Kraut issue."

"'E was here! Maybe 'e's left us a trail…." " Goniff exclaimed, standing and looking around anxiously.

"It's been almost two weeks," Actor pointed out. "If he left a trail, it would be long gone by now."

Garrison took control of his own careening thoughts, trying to block out the worst scenarios his mind was producing. Anything that would make Chief leave behind his knife was not good. "Alright, before we lose the light, let's walk a grid and see what else we can find."

He spaced them at five-foot intervals, and for the next hour they methodically surveyed the woodlands for at least a square mile. They turned up nothing, and Garrison saw his own disappointment reflected in the slump of their shoulders. He had to remind himself that not finding a body was a good thing. But it was time to move on. "Grab your gear. We need to get to the safe house."

"Just a bit longer, Warden," Goniff protested. "We 'aven't looked out in the field yet,"

"It's too dark. We wouldn't be able to see anything."

"So you're just givin' up. Again." Casino wasn't going to let up.

"I didn't say that. But we have a mission to complete."

"Oh yeah, I remember," Casino scoffed. "Pieces of paper to photograph."

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Getting to the safe house under the cover of darkness had only taken a little stealth, staying quiet and behind the cover of foliage where possible. They were using the same place they'd used on the previous trip, a large barn-like storage structure in the industrial outskirts of town, apparently abandoned for years, which hid a warren of rooms in the back, off of a secluded alley. A thorough reconnoiter showed no sign of anyone else in the area, so they set about stowing their gear and breaking out the minimal rations they'd brought with them.

"Settle in, eat some dinner, and get some rest," Garrison ordered, as he shoved the envelope of maps and blueprints underneath his belt in the back and pulled his shirt down over it. "I'm going to find Renee and see if he's heard anything."

"About Chiefy, ya mean…" Goniff was still hopeful.

"Yeah. About Chief."

"That's it? You're just going to ask questions?" Casino demanded.

"What else do you suggest? A door-to-door search?" More anger than he intended — he was having a hard time controlling it with Casino anymore.

"If that's what it takes…."

Actor laid a calming hand on the safe cracker's shoulder. "Be reasonable, Casino. If there is news to be had, Renee will have it."

"He should also have some equipment for us. We'll pick up anything else we need in the morning." Garrison made a point to look each of them in the eye — he still didn't like the anger simmering behind Casino's. "Stay put. If anything goes sideways, it jeopardizes the mission and any chance of finding out what happened to Chief."

As he headed for the door, he heard Casino mumble, "I know what happened to Chief."

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He checked his watch as he approached the tiny cafe — he was late, their search of the woods had taken time. Hopefully Renee would still be here. His eyes didn't have to adjust as he stepped through the door — it wasn't much brighter inside than it was on the poorly lit street. He recognized the elderly woman who approached and directed him to a table — one of Renee's people. She would tell the Resistance leader of his arrival. He ordered a glass of wine, a plate of bread and cheese, and waited, commanding the heavy, sweet wine to loosen the knot in his stomach.

Another glass of wine and two cigarettes later, a tall, sophisticated Frenchman was shown to the table next to his, and he ordered an ale. He did not make eye contact, and sat with his back to Garrison. After nursing his drink for several minutes, the Frenchman spoke softly. "Everything you need is in the car around the corner on Rue Saint-Gilles. The keys are on top of the left front wheel."

Garrison spread some soft goat cheese on another thick slice of bread. "And my missing man — have you heard anything?"

"The Convent of St. Joan, west of town, is rumored to have an injured soldier in their small hospital."

Garrison's heart sank. Chief had been in civvies on their last mission. "In uniform?" he asked.

"I know nothing else," Renee sighed.

"Can the nuns be trusted?"

"They are friends, but the Abbess is reluctant to cross the Germans."

"Thank you, Renee."

The tall Frenchman downed the remainder of his ale in one gulp and rose to leave. "Stay safe, my friend."

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As anxious as he was to get back to the safe house, he took the time to drive slowly around the area until he was confident that no one had followed him or seen the car, before pulling it into the alley and between buildings. Casino was standing watch at the door, Chief's knife ready in his right hand.

Garrison strode past him to the table, pulling the packet of maps out of his belt. Ripping a map out of the pack, he nearly tore it trying to get it open onto the table. He found the small group of tiny squares that indicated the convent. "Here. Renee said he's heard the convent is treating a patient. He doesn't have any more information than that."

"Well, what are we waitin' for?" Casino reached for his weapon and jacket. "We need to get out there."

"First thing in the morning."

"What's wrong with now?"

"It's late, it's dark. We don't want to set off any alarms."

Goniff stepped up to the table to look at the map. "So you think it could be Chiefy?"

For once, Garrison felt a little of the same optimism as his pick pocket. "I don't know. It's close to our drop zone….if he were injured and someone found him….." He stopped short of telling them that the patient had been identified as a soldier. When he looked up at the three men gathered around him, for the first time in days he saw something besides anger in their faces. "We can hope."

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He'd awakened suddenly to the sound of Actor's sharp snap, indicating that someone was approaching their hideout. It took his heartbeat a moment to slow down when it turned out to be one of Renee's runners with a message. And it had only taken him a minute to decode the brief cypher — their plan was scrapped. The reception that afternoon, where they'd hoped to infiltrate the large gathering of German officers and gain access to the Commandant's headquarters, had been cancelled. The message didn't say why, but Garrison suspected that higher authorities had deemed it a waste of resources.

"What now?" Actor asked.

Garrison only had to think for a moment, then he jotted a coded response to Renee's message, and gave it to the waiting runner. "We still have the documents and the uniforms. We don't need an actual crowd to get into the house. We just need a little authority."

But it was still early, and there was the other item on their agenda. None of them had been able to eat much before getting into the car and heading west out of town. A second set of forged documents identifying them as wine merchants got them easily past the checkpoints.


	7. Chapter 7

THE FOG OF WAR

CHAPTER 7

Too easily he'd fallen into the quiet routine of the convent, and gradually the dark, disturbing dreams had subsided. But he wasn't sure that was a good thing — somehow they held answers, the puzzle pieces that were missing from his head. It scared him that he might never find those missing pieces. He knew he didn't belong here, that he had something else important he was suppose to be doing, and he was getting too comfortable with life among the nuns.

Jeanette and the Abbess were the only ones who spoke any English, but the other nuns accepted him with good grace and charm. One elderly little nun was even trying to teach him some French, and he humored her. It took up a pleasant hour in the afternoons, when he could sit quietly in the shade with her, and so far he'd learned to count to 10 and say "Mon nom est Boris."

They included him in their meals, sharing with him what little they had, and even found some more clothes for him — simple and worn, but serviceable — and a straight razor. And he'd taken to sitting quietly in the back of the chapel during their hours of prayer, wondering if what they were praying for was something he should believe in. He found their soft voices a comfort.

He helped with the chores everywhere he could, tending the garden, collecting eggs, taking care of the little donkey, and making repairs. He wasn't surprised to find that he was good with his hands, and he could handle some of the heavy work that the nuns would normally have to rely on a charitable neighbor to do. There was a leak in the chapel roof that only needed a couple of new shingles. Where the fieldstone wall was crumbling behind the barn, he filled it in with new stone he collected from the river, with the help of the donkey and cart. And he showed them how to spice up their simple vegetable stew with some dandelion greens and spring onions. Finding himself alone in the kitchen that evening, he'd 'liberated' the small knife he'd used to slice the onions, and sharpened it the best he could on one of the field stones from the collapsed wall. It tucked away neatly in the pocket on the inside of his right boot, almost like it belonged there, and it made him feel less vulnerable.

He noticed that whenever Jeanette was free from her duties and lessons, she was never far from him, helping with any task he was working on. She was a comfortable companion, keeping him entertained with stories of her childhood at the winery or her school days in Massachusetts, often making him laugh, but never requiring anything of him. Her green eyes and quick, mischievous smile made the hours fly. When she was occupied elsewhere, he missed her, and was always happy to see her come around a corner to join him as he worked. The day before, she'd carefully removed the stitches from his forehead.

When he awoke at dawn that morning, his headache was gone. And he felt tight, wound up like a spring — he needed to move, to burn off energy. He dressed quickly and headed out the narrow dirt road leading away from the front gate. Though early, the morning was already warm, with humid air blowing in from the west. After carefully stretching, he started out at a slow jog, then gradually increased his speed. He was used to running. He'd missed the steady rhythm, the controlled breathing, the heat building in his muscles, the competition of a friendly race…. He tried to let his thoughts go free, to drift among the empty spaces in his head, hopefully to stumble upon some missing piece that might then lead to another missing piece, but there were only black holes where he knew a memory should be. Why did he keep seeing a brilliant purple and orange sunset on the high desert? Or an open green field surrounded by high walls and barbed wire? Or a small plane exploding in a ball of fire?

He reached the end of the dirt road, where it met the main paved road, but he needed to keep moving. He knew he was taking a chance being out in the open, so far from the convent, but he stayed alert for any hint of someone nearby or the sound of an approaching motor. All he heard were the birds, and the wind, and the small creatures foraging in the dry leaves.

After another couple of miles, he turned and headed back, eventually finding himself at the embankment that lead down to the river. Sweat stung his eyes and the cut, where it soaked through the bandage. He reveled in the pleasant burn in his calves and thighs, and the pounding of his heart. The river was too inviting. It took him only seconds to strip out of his damp clothes and dive in, not giving himself the chance to think about the sudden shock of the frigid water. He came up, shook the water out of his eyes and hair, pulled the wet bandage off, and started upstream against the current, with long, steady strokes. He'd just begun to feel the pleasant burn in his arms when he was stopped by a raft of fallen trees and debris collecting in the middle of the stream, so he turned and let the gentle current pull him back down to his starting point.

He remembered seeing fish languidly floating in a small pool at the edge of the river that had been created by more debris and the recent rains. He found the secluded spot and eased into it as quietly as possible, trying not to startle the fish. Trout and a few perch would make a nice dinner. He sat quietly, letting the cool water drain the ache from his muscles, and watched the fish get used to his presence, as if he were just another fallen log. They sparkled in the dappled sunlight. After 10 minutes, he swiftly flicked a large trout out of the water and onto the bank. Another half hour of patience scored him another trout and two perch. One more trout would make a true feast. He sat patiently until it swam within reach, but when he made his move, the slippery fish swung its tail and flipped over his head. He grabbed for it and splashed backward into the pool, coming back up with a mouthful of water. He spit it out and pushed the hair out of his eyes.

Her laugh startled him, and he swung around to find her sitting on the bank, next to his pile of clothes, smiling at him. He'd been so absorbed in his game that he hadn't heard her approach, he'd let his guard down. Not good.

He sank into the water up to his shoulders. "How long have you been there?"

"What if I said a half hour?"

"That's a lie."

"You're right. I was sent to find you. Mother Catherine wants to talk to you."

He'd been expecting the Abbess to finally say something to him about his plans. It was time to make some.

"Turn around," he ordered.

"Why?"

"So I can get dressed."

"I bathed you twice while you were unconscious. You don't have anything I haven't already seen."

He felt the heat rise in his face.

"Oh, okay!" She stood and turned her back. "That's quite a talent you have. Is that dinner?"

He climbed from the water and quickly slipped into his pants before picking up his shirt and drying his hair with it. "I thought they'd be tasty, and they didn't seem to have anything better to do."

He pulled on his wet shirt, and using a piece of vine, he strung the fish together and followed her up the embankment to the road.

"Claude came to see her this morning," Jeanette stated quietly. "He said he'd seen parachutes yesterday, landing not far from here. He didn't know if the Germans saw them, too."

Parachutes. He felt the brief panic of stepping off into nothingness, soaring like an eagle over the distant landscape, with the rush of wind in his face, and the sudden jolt on hitting the ground and rolling, tangling in the lines…and then it was gone, evaporating like a mist on the breeze.

"Mother Catherine wants you to leave," Jeanette said, pulling him back from the mist.

"She's right, I don't belong here."

She stopped directly in front of him and turned to face him. "You can't leave. Where would you go? You don't know your name, you don't speak the language…."

"I know those parachutes have something to do with me. I have to find out what."

"And just how would you do that?" She almost stamped her foot in frustration, a familiar stubborn frown drawing down the corners of her mouth.

"I'll think of somethin'…."

"No, I don't want you to leave….." He heard tears choke her voice as she laid her head against his chest.

"Hey, don't…" He took her by the shoulders and made her look up at him.

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the mouth. Before his mind could react, he found himself responding to her warmth, returning the kiss, wanting to touch her….but he couldn't.

He broke away and took her arms from around his neck. "This can't happen…"

"Why not?"

"I…it's just that…I can't…You don't know me."

"I know you're gentle and kind and smart and thoughtful…"

"No, I've done things…you don't wanna know about."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

She only stared up at him with tears rolling down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry." He wished he had the words. "In some other time or place, maybe…" He took her hand and pulled her gently up the path. "I gotta leave."

They'd reached the front gate when he heard it — the low whine beneath the bird song. He stopped to listen — a car up on the main road.

"What is it?" she asked.

He gave her a shove toward the chapel as he turned for the barn. "Go tell Mother Catherine she's about to have visitors."


	8. Chapter 8

THE FOG OF WAR

Chapter 8

He stood motionless at the back of the barn, where he could see through the door to the path leading to the front of the chapel. From here he could either fade quickly into the woods or go to the aid of the nuns, whichever he needed to do. The small knife felt inadequate in his hand, but it was better than nothing.

The car had stopped somewhere in the distance, he could no longer hear the engine. Minutes passed. It seemed like hours. Dry leaves rustled in the undergrowth behind the barn. He caught his breath and held it. Someone was trying to move quietly along the stone wall — they passed the barn and kept moving. He didn't breathe again until he could no longer hear them.

More long minutes passed. Maybe it was a false alarm, maybe the car had been heading somewhere else. But the movement behind him along the wall had been human, not an animal. He waited.

Men moved into his line of sight, walking single file from the gate toward the chapel. Workmen? Local farmers? If they were armed, their weapons were well concealed. There were three of them, spread out and cautious. Then a fourth brought up the rear — possibly the one who had circled behind him along the wall. Mother Catherine, tall and imposing in her black habit, walked out to greet them.

Again there was movement in the woods behind him, and he turned toward the barn's back door, the knife ready to find a mark…and Jeanette slinked around the corner.

"They're not Germans…." she started to say.

"Ssshhh!"

She came to stand next to him and watched the scene playing out on the chapel path. "I think they're French, but I can't hear what…."

He swung his arm around her and covered her mouth with his hand, more roughly than he'd intended, and he felt her gasp and tense. Maybe now she'd believe he wasn't who she thought. "Shut up!" he breathed in her ear. She froze in his grip, just now seeing the knife.

He strained to make out what they were saying. The words meant nothing to him, but the tone sounded friendly, unthreatening. And then Mother Catherine turned and headed for the barn, motioning for her visitors to follow.

As he watched them approach, he slowly released his grip on Jeanette, and she backed away from him, her eyes wide. His mind raced. If Mother Catherine felt comfortable giving him up, he'd have to go along, and play it by ear. He flipped the knife around, hid it under his sleeve, and stepped toward the barn door.

"Boris," the Abbess called. "These men would like to speak with you."

He froze. The Warden. And Actor. It all came rushing back in one sudden, violent flood, making his stomach flip and the ground tilt. The pelting rain, the blinding explosions, the thunder, and the lightening so close it lit up the forest like daylight. Casino and Goniff running ahead of him, pulling the sobbing girl between them. He was covering their rear, trying to discourage the squad of Krauts on their tail. He saw Garrison break into the open, running full speed for the waiting plane. He started to make his break….when the plane disappeared in a deafening blast and a massive ball of fire….he fell to his hands and knees, trying to absorb what he'd just seen. They were all there, and they were all gone. He never heard the blast that sent him down into blackness.

He was trying to absorb what he saw now and reconcile it with the vivid memory. "Warden? You're not dead."

Garrison grinned. "Neither are you."

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The Abbess had insisted they all come in out of the morning heat and share some cider. Garrison took another sip, noting the sweet liquid had already done a good deal of fermenting, and he wondered how much of it he should drink. But it was cold and tasted good, and this was a celebration. He hadn't truly realized how tense he had been for the past two weeks, until all of it had drained from him in a rush, seeing Chief standing in front of him, healthy and in one piece.

"Boris, huh?" Goniff said again, for the fifth time. "I'd never take you for a Boris."

"Sure, _Rodney_," Casino chided.

"Boris is a very honorable name," Actor added. "In the Bulgar language it means 'wolf'. I think it fits."

Goniff and Casino sat protectively on either side of Chief at the nun's dining table, as they tried to pry the story of his last two weeks out of him. Every couple of minutes, Goniff would punch him good-naturedly on the arm, or muss his hair, as if trying to reassure himself that the Indian was really there.

Chief finally swatted his hand away. "Knock it off, Goniff."

Jeanette, the young novice, brought another pitcher of cider to the table, first filling Chief's glass, and then the others. Garrison couldn't help but notice how her eyes lingered on Chief, and how she touched his arm as she poured. Actor caught it too, and he exchanged a smile with the con man, but shoved that potential problem to the back of his mind for now.

"You said you grew up in the villa on the hill?" Garrison asked.

"It was my family's winery before the invasion."

"Would you be able to draw a layout of the interior…."

"No way, Warden," Chief cut him off.

"I'm only asking for a drawing."

"No way you're gettin' her involved."

"I want to help." Her hand was on Chief's arm again.

"Ain't gonna happen."

"I'll draw a stupid map if I want!" Her green eyes flared at the young Indian. Garrison thought Chief must've had his hands full for the last couple of weeks.

"We'll memorize it and burn it, Chief. She won't be implicated."

"I still don't like it."

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Jeanette's hand-drawn floor plan of the entire villa was a big asset. He'd had all of them commit it to memory, and then they'd burned it over an oil lamp at the safe house, making sure that every trace of paper turned to ash.

Garrison finished buttoning his uniform tunic and turned back to the maps spread out on the table. "Let's go over it one more time."

"What, again?" Casino griped. "The first three hundred times weren't enough?"

"If anything goes wrong, you'll wish we'd done it three hundred and one times." Casino returned his steady glare, but took a step back. "Goniff?" Garrison prompted.

"Whilst you and Actor keep the Commandant busy, we take out the guard at the back door, and Casino and Chief let themselves in. I stand watch while they find the study."

"Casino, where's the study?"

The safe cracker sighed heavily, reciting his part obediently, "Through the kitchen, down the main hall, second door on the right."

"Mademoiselle LeBeau didn't think the documents were kept in a safe, but be prepared to work fast, just is case."

"Sure, no sweat."

"Chief?"

"I watch the door while Casino does his thing, then we get the hell outta there."

"Good. Any questions?"

"What about servants?" Goniff asked.

"You know the routine. We don't want to hurt anybody if we don't have to." Garrison glanced at his watch. "Actor and I should be able to keep the Commandant occupied for at least a half hour. Don't count on any longer. We'll meet up at the drop zone and head for the coast from there."

He looked around at each of his men, now a complete team again, and wondered, not for the first time, how he'd lucked out. Of all the disasters this project could have become, of all the convicts in Federal prisons, he'd managed to find these four men who fit together like well oiled gears. He just needed to hold it all together. "Alright, let's hit the road. The Commandant is expecting us at 14:00."

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They'd hopped out of the car a mile from the villa and walked the rest of the way through the thick underbrush. The Warden had given them enough time to reach the back of the house before he and Actor put in their appearance for their scheduled meeting with their 'new commander'. It was something Renee's people had arranged, and Chief didn't want to think about how many ways that could go badly wrong. He just needed to focus on his piece of it.

The single guard posted at the rear entrance to the large villa was an easy take-down. Casino quickly sprung the lock, and they slipped into the large, fragrant kitchen, while Goniff took up his post outside. The smell of freshly baked bread made his stomach growl.

The Commandant's study was right where Jeanette said it would be — a richly appointed room with wood paneling, a massive stone fireplace, and a mahogany desk in the center. He posted himself at the heavy double doors, tuning his hearing to anything that might come down the hall, as Casino began searching through the drawers.

Minutes ticked by. Or hours. It was taking too long. He could hear Garrison's and Actor's voices in the front room. Even though all German sounded harsh to his ears, the third voice sounded even more strident, as if he wasn't pleased with how the conversation was going.

"Hurry up!" he hissed at Casino, who had now moved from the desk to the safe against the wall.

"Keep your pants on." Casino swiped his cap off and put his ear against the metal door, listening as the tumblers clicked into place. It was only a matter of seconds before he was rifling through the contents of the safe, searching for the documents Garrison had described for him. "Bingo!"

Chief kept his eyes and ears on the hallway, but he could hear Casino methodically snapping pictures with the tiny Minox. And he could hear the conversation escalating in the front room. It didn't sound like they were going to get the half hour the Warden had promised.

Finally, Casino slid the papers back into the safe and closed the door. "Let's blow this joint."

They'd just reached the kitchen door when Casino suddenly swung around. "My hat. I left it back there." He tossed the small camera to Goniff and dashed back up the hallway.

"Casino, no!" Chief grabbed for his arm but caught only air. He shot Goniff a desperate glance that he hoped shouted 'get out of here', then turned and ran after Casino. And came face to face with an automatic weapon.

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He'd lost track of time. The small cellar room had no light other than what filtered in around the door. He was cold and hungry and every fiber of his being hurt like hell. How long had it been since they'd dumped him back onto the dirt floor? How long since they'd dragged Casino out? Sitting huddled against the damp stone wall, he'd drifted in and out of consciousness, all sense of time distorted. His eyes had just drifted closed again, sinking him back into the dark hallucinations, when the harsh grating of the opening door snapped him alert.

Casino was shoved, stumbled and collapsed face down into the middle of the room. The door slammed shut, and the heavy metal bar thudded into place. Jackboots echoed into the distance.

He pushed away from the wall, the movement sending shards of pain through his chest, and he reached out until he touched an arm. "Casino?"

A groan. The arm moved as Casino tried to push himself off the floor.

"Take it easy, man. You okay?"

"Yeah, just peachy…."

Chief did his best to help Casino crawl over beside him against the wall, and in the dimness he surveyed what he could see of his friend's face. His mouth was bloody, and his left eye was swollen almost shut. Chief was sure there was other damage he couldn't see.

They sat in silence for a minute, shoulder to shoulder, until he heard Casino's breathing steady. "What'd you tell 'em?" he finally asked.

"I told 'em what they could do with their fuckin' little horse whip thing."

Chief laughed, and it hurt.

"What'd you tell 'em?" Casino returned.

"I've had worse beatin's from missionaries."

This time it was Casino's turn to stifle a painful laugh. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, these guys are amateurs," Casino agreed. "We'll probably meet the real pros tomorrow."

The silence stretched between them until he started to drift again….

"You know he won't come back for us," Casino finally said.

"Yeah, he will."

"No, he has his pieces of paper, he's completed his mission. That's all he cares about."

"You're wrong."

"Just like he came back for you two weeks ago? He left you for dead out there and didn't give it a second thought."

"You're wrong," Chief repeated more insistently, his damaged ribs complaining at the extra effort. "He came back."

"Only because he needed those stupid papers!"

Chief closed his eyes, trying desperately not to drift off again. He needed to organize his thoughts, find the words, make Casino understand. "The papers are important."

"Yeah, yeah, I know — save thousands of lives, could end the war….." Casino shifted, and Chief heard him suck in a labored breath.

Chief gave him a moment for his breathing to quiet again, then asked, "Why are you here?"

"Because we got caught, dummy."

"No, I mean why are you with the Warden?"

"Same as you. For the pardon."

"At the start, maybe, but why are you _still_ here?" All the talking opened up the cut on the inside of his lip, and blood oozed into his mouth. He spit it out, the effort sending spikes of fire along his ribs. "You could get yourself shipped back to Leavenworth. Gotta beat gettin' your brains kicked out by the Krauts."

In the long silence that followed, he thought maybe Casino had drifted off, too. Finally Casino shifted against his shoulder again and let out an uneven sigh. "Okay, I get it. But you gotta admit the guy is fuckin' crazy."

"Got that straight, man."

Boots coming down the hall again, right outside the door now. His heart raced, pounding against his bruised ribs, and he pushed against the wall, trying to stand. He needed to face his attackers eye to eye. He only hoped that this time he'd pass out quickly. He heard the grating of the iron bar being raised, the door squeaked slowly open, and the familiar voice said, "Actor, get Casino."

The Warden caught him as his legs gave out. "Chief, you okay?"

"Better now, Warden" The last thing he remembered was Garrison lifting him across his shoulders.

gg gg gg gg gg gg gg

From where he stood on the mansion's terrace, Garrison could see them all down on the parade grounds, their fatigues stained with sweat, their attention on the close-quarters combat expert who was schooling them in the finer points of how to kill someone with their bare hands. Garrison had to give the young sergeant credit — he'd chosen Actor as his "victim" to demonstrate the take-down maneuver. The tall Italian had at least four inches and 30 pounds over the instructor, but he played his part for the sake of demonstration, letting himself be thrown unceremoniously into the dirt. Then the sergeant divided them into pairs, to practice the maneuver on each other.

Actor was paired with Goniff. Garrison had to smile. For all his aristocratic bearing and sophistication, Actor was strong and hard-muscled. He'd benefited from all the physical training since arriving at the estate. Goniff was quick and agile, assets that served him well when sheer physical presence wasn't enough.

Casino and Chief were more evenly matched. With proper medical care, good nutrition, and a lot of rest, they'd healed quickly from their ordeal, at least physically. He hadn't had much time in the last few weeks to talk with them, aside from sharing an occasional meal or a couple of beers over cards. He'd made attempts to draw them out during those relaxed moments, but neither had taken his lead.

He watched them carefully now, as he pulled off his jacket and tie, and dropped them, along with his cap, on the terrace steps. Chief's very survival had depended on his skill as a fighter, both on the streets and in violent prison yards. He was unschooled and undisciplined, but deadly. Casino, like Actor, had benefited from the physical training, growing leaner and more muscular over the months. And he was a quick study, able to duplicate his instructor's maneuvers with little practice and a great deal of lethal accuracy.

But as Garrison suspected, the two hot-heads were an explosive combination. Someone got a knee in the kidney, someone took an elbow to the eye, and the whole thing quickly dissolved into a school yard brawl. Actor and the instructor stepped in to pull the two apart before anyone got seriously hurt. Casino strained against the sergeant's grip, still needing to tear Chief's head off. Chief ripped his arm from Actor's grasp, and swiped angrily at his bloody nose.

It was time for him to join the fray. The young sergeant snapped to attention at his approach, and Garrison's first thought was that they're starting to draft children now — he looked too young to be a drill instructor. "At ease, Sergeant. Why don't you demonstrate the maneuver one more time. I'll be your target."

The sergeant hesitated at the thought of attacking an officer.

"It's okay," Garrison assured him. "Just don't break anything."

Garrison lunged at the young non-com, and slowly but powerfully, he executed the take-down, with Garrison flying over his shoulder and landing hard on his back. He thought the kid might have taken some pleasure in having permission to throw down an officer.

He jumped to his feet, brushed himself off, and squared his shoulders. Now came the moment of truth. He turned and faced his safe cracker. "Okay, Casino, your turn."

Garrison didn't give him a second to prepare — he rushed in, grabbed, and swung Casino around, his arm locked around his neck, right arm twisted behind his back. Then he released him and pushed him away. "Not fast enough. Try it again."

He recognized the angry glare. He'd seen it too many times over the past month. He had to get Casino to act on it. He attacked again, but this time Casino was able to parry his move and throw him off balance, knocking him to his knees. But from that position, he swept Casino's legs out from under him, and quickly pinned him face down on the ground, his arm once again twisted behind his back. With one final painful twist of Casino's wrist, he released him and got back to his feet. "Again," he demanded.

He'd barely gotten the word out when Casino rushed in headlong, ramming a shoulder squarely into his stomach, sending them both flying to the ground. Casino had both of his arms pinned, but Garrison wrapped his legs around his chest and squeezed, until he felt one hand loosen. Whipping it free, he swung for Casino's jaw, making solid contact, sending him sprawling. He was just barely on his feet again when the heavy impact from behind flattened him, pushing him face first into the dirt. Chief was on his back, trying to hold him down, but he wasn't heavy enough — he pushed one knee up under him, then pull the kid over his shoulder, flipping him onto his back with a thud.

He staggered to his feet, about ready to call a halt to the exercise, when they both hit him at once, and they all went down in a heap. Garrison kneed Chief in the ribs, sending him sprawling, and turned his attack on Casino, trying again to pin his arms behind him, but Chief's full weight smashed against him again, and he slammed hard against the ground, the air knocked out of him. Then Casino was on him, his arm shoved hard against his windpipe, cutting off his ability to refill his lungs. He struggled to push back, to loosen the pressure — bright spots popped before his eyes, and he started to black out, wondering dimly if Chief had his knife.

And suddenly he was free, the weight was off of him, and he desperately gasped for air. As his vision cleared, he saw Casino and Chief on either side of him, each reaching a hand down to him. He took them both and let them pulled him to his feet. Blood was smeared across Chief's cheek, and a purple bruise was forming on Casino's chin. Off to the side, Actor and Goniff had a firm hold on the sergeant, preventing him from interfering.

He staggered slightly, trying to regain his balance and catch his breath. He looked from Chief to Casino, then over at Actor and Goniff. They were all waiting for his next move, his next words, wondering what this would cost them.

"Even?" he asked.

"Even," they agreed.


	9. Chapter 9

**THE FOG OF WAR**

**Epilogue**

**A/N: Thank you, Dart53, for the inspiration of "Accountability", and for letting me dwell in your universe for a while.**

From his seat at his desk, Garrison had heard them come in earlier, still laughing and bantering about their evening of drinking and cards at The Doves, as they'd clattered up the stairs. He let himself sit there for a while longer, finishing off what remained in the glass on the edge of his desk, and listening to the floor boards squeak in the room above him, as his men went about settling in for the night.

It had been a long day, and a dull pain pulsed behind his eyes. He rose and shrugged into his jacket, aggravating the uncharacteristic stiffness in his back and shoulders. After he switched off his desk lamp, he stepped to the French doors that led out onto the terrace, and pulled back the heavy curtain to look out into the peaceful night. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness and shadows, he could barely make out the vague figure sitting alone on the steps. He thought he'd heard only three of them come in. He picked up the bottle and two glasses and carefully opened the door.

It was one of those nights that promised an early summer, soft and almost warm, carrying the green fragrance of grass that had been cut that afternoon. There was no moon, but the Milky Way stretched to the horizon, every single star sharp and exquisite.

"Mind some company?" he asked quietly.

Chief looked up at him, and in answer, picked up his jacket from the step beside him and moved it out of the way.

Settling himself next to his young scout, Garrison handed him one of the glasses and poured some of the amber liquid into it, then poured his own.

Chief took the bottle, studied the label, and cocked an approving eyebrow. Then he poured himself an additional two fingers' worth, and set the bottle between them on the step.

Garrison took a sip from his glass, letting the smooth fire of the good single malt coat his mouth and slide down is throat. The two glasses he'd finished off inside were making their way to his head already.

"Do you know the constellations?" he asked, taking another sip and raising the glass toward the sea of stars overhead.

"Not by name, if that's what you mean."

"Can you navigate by them?"

"Pretty much."

"Good thing to know."

He let the warm silence settle between them for a moment, as he watched the young man contemplate his Scotch, running a thumb around the rim of the glass.

Chief took a healthy sip and let it linger in his mouth, savoring it briefly before swallowing. "The good stuff," he finally said. "Somethin' you need to tell me, Warden?"

Garrison had to smile. That seemed to be the routine — the good liquor always accompanied the bad news. "No, tonight the bottle just seemed to be burning a hole in my cabinet." He took another sip. "Are you alright?" he finally asked.

Chief raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I kicked you pretty hard this morning."

A small smile quirked at the corner of Chief's mouth. "Yeah, I'm good. How 'bout you?"

"A little stiff."

Chief smiled again, this time wider.

Again the comfortable silence took over as each shared the darkness and the Scotch. Garrison knew the alcohol was soaking into his brain, and he let it, feeling the tight restlessness finally drain from his muscles. He refilled Chief's glass and his own.

"It was Jeanette's map that helped us find you," he said, and he felt Chief stiffen next to him. "You couldn't talk her into coming with us?"

"Nah. Said she was gonna join the Resistance."

Garrison briefly contemplated being able to use her in future missions, but only said, "She'll be a valuable asset."

"I guess," Chief conceded.

Garrison leaned back on his elbows on the top step and studied the Milky Way flowing into infinity overhead, looking the same as it had for countless millennia, oblivious to the petty concerns of mankind, the same as it had looked over North Africa two years ago. "You're the first," he said softly, as if not wanting to let himself admit it.

Chief watched him quietly, understanding there was more.

"I lost an entire patrol in one night in Africa. Eight men. Five were married, three had young children. Two weren't even 20 yet." He paused for another swallow of the Scotch. "And Private Marty O'Brien. He was driving my jeep when we were strafed. I should have been driving it myself. And Catron...and Jackman. And Wheeler….." He almost laughed. "I try to tell myself it was his stupidity that killed him, but it doesn't always work."

"He was outta control, Warden…"

"I know that, but he was still my responsibility."

Chief emptied the bottle into his own glass, deciding against refilling his commander's.

Garrison sat forward and rested his arms across his knees. "But you're the first man I've ever left behind. And you'll be the last." He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. "I needed you to know that."

Chief handed him the empty bottle. "I already did, Warden."


End file.
